


subtleties that we are not aware of

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kissing, M/M, Snogging, angst/comfort/fluff, another kissing fic, sorta fluffy at the end anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Sherlock kisses John; the first (and second) time(s) John kisses Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	subtleties that we are not aware of

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote another story about the two of them kissing. Yeah.
> 
> Title is taken wholesale from DM's "Damaged People" off of Playing the Angel. It fits.
> 
> Wasn't trying to write angst/fluff, but I somehow seem to have done so. Hope it works. Un-beta'd or Brit-picked, so be nice re: errors and/or crass Americanisms.

The first time Sherlock kisses John, it isn’t after a case, or after a chase or even after they’ve had a row, but in the middle of the night. If it weren’t for the fact that John is a light sleeper and wakes as soon as Sherlock sits beside him, John wouldn’t even be aware that it happened.

But he is a light sleeper, perhaps even more so now that he lives with Sherlock and is woken in the middle of the night to go haring off after some villain or another often enough that he hardly complains about it anymore. So he looks up at Sherlock in sleepy curiosity; Sherlock is sat next to him on the bed, hands clasped together and squeezed between his knees. He’s in pajamas, hair mussed, face a storm. He doesn’t look at John, but whispers his name.

He sounds broken.

“Sherlock?” John props himself up on an elbow, rubs the sleep from his eyes. He gets a good look at the man avoiding his eyes, and pushes himself up further to lean back against the headboard.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John automatically goes into doctor-mode, gently running his hands over every part of Sherlock he can reach, looking for wounds, for blood, for singed eyebrows and burns, trying to figure out why his proud, upright flatmate is hunched at his side and shaking, looking for all the world like he’s trying to hide from the monsters under the bed.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John can tell even in the dim light coming through the window that he’s trying oh so hard to keep himself from trembling; he’s failing. Tension radiates from him like heat.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John insists.

Sherlock shakes his head, leans forward until they’re forehead to forehead. This is something that has happened before, pressed together and staring at each other, so close all they can smell is each other, except this time Sherlock still won’t meet his eyes. As far as John can figure, Sherlock does it when he wants John to think, or when he wants to think, or when he wants John to be quiet. In the last case, anyway, it works. It always shuts John up.

It doesn’t shut John up this time.

“Sherlock, you’re worrying me, what’s going on?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, brushes his nose against John’s.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice goes soft--well, soft _er_. His hands slowly stop moving, coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath; everything about him is still trembling. John briefly runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, murmurs something meant to be soothing. Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him.

John watches Sherlock, wonders what’s going on. He doesn’t know what to do, or why Sherlock is like this, or how to fix it.

Sherlock finally opens his eyes to meet John’s. They’re wide and wild and shattered, like a million shards of glass. John goes completely still, and Sherlock shifts, moves in until their lips are touching, inexorably slow, glacially slow.

John feels his whole existence narrow down to just Sherlock, taking up his entire field of vision. He’s ok with this. He carefully takes a breath, slowly breathes out against Sherlock’s barely parted lips.

 _This_ , he thinks. He hopes his eyes convey what he feels: trust, willingness, _yes_. He doesn’t know yet what Sherlock needs or wants, but he’s not about to stop the man.

Sherlock kisses him, soft tiny presses of lips, barely long enough each to count as a kiss. He whispers John’s name over and over between kisses, voice broken and anguished.

John struggles not to take over, when what he really wants to do is devour Sherlock, drown in him; John struggles not to do more than drape his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, he struggles to hold on loosely, trying to encourage Sherlock without terrifying him. Without terrifying him any further than he already appears to be, anyway.

Their kisses lengthen infinitesimally, deepen even more slowly. Sherlock’s hands remain tightly squeezed between his knees, as though he’s afraid to touch John, like John will go away, will disappear, will never have been real at all, if he risks touching more than lips and noses together. But the shaking subsides, and most of the tension drains from his shoulders, and then the rest of his back, and finally from his neck. John takes the opportunity to gently, gently direct Sherlock with a finger on his chin to turn his head just ever so slightly, so the next kiss is deeper, longer. John sighs into it, because _yes, this_ , and Sherlock moans softly.

The kisses ease as slowly as they deepened, until they are back where they started, foreheads together, noses brushing, breathing each other’s breath. John opens his eyes and a moment later Sherlock shuts his; John’s glad that the man in his arms isn’t shaking anymore, hoping that he helped, hoping that they didn’t just fuck everything up beyond repair, still no clue as to what’s going on.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, voice steady now, or at least unsteady for different reasons, and that’s gratifying because John isn’t so steady himself.

“Shh,” John replies. He doesn’t need to know the why or the how or if Sherlock is already regretting this. He holds Sherlock closer, resists the urge to giggle, resists the stronger urge to kiss him again, overwhelm him, _take_ him. Sherlock turns his head and leans down further, until he’s pressed into John’s shoulder, nose against his neck. Sherlock takes one last deep, shuddering breath, and melts against John.

John leans his cheek against Sherlock’s bowed head and eventually falls asleep like that.

**

The first time John kisses Sherlock, Sherlock is asleep on the couch. He doesn’t wake up when John kneels beside the couch or when John presses his lips briefly against Sherlock’s, before rising back to his feet and going into the kitchen to make his morning tea. Sherlock is a much deeper sleeper than John is, when he actually deigns to sleep.

The second time around goes rather better, thank god.

John has almost convinced himself that Sherlock waking him and kissing him in the middle of the night had been a figment of his over-active imagination. This would make John incredibly sad if it weren’t for that almost. _Almost_. It’s pretty ridiculous, actually, John has never needed an almost when it came to someone he wanted; in fact, John has never even particularly needed his over-active imagination before getting someone into bed. He’s needed it an awful lot lately though, especially the past few days.

So, there it is. He’s almost convinced himself that Sherlock never kissed him, never poured his whole life, his fear of the unknown and his unbearable aching _want_ for John into John’s mouth in the middle of the night while he shakes with the terror of it, and then curled up practically on John’s chest, only to disappear before John could wake the next morning with an aching bad shoulder and a crick in his neck from the awkward sleeping-whilst-sitting-up position. Except for the way Sherlock looks at him when he thinks John isn’t paying attention. Like John is trampling all over his heart and he doesn’t know what to do about it or even how it’s happening. Bewildered. The most self-assured pompous ass of a man that John has ever met, and he looks at John like he’s utterly bewildered.

And also, there’s the way Sherlock’s breath hitches whenever John happens to touch him.

John touches Sherlock as often as he can manage without being completely obvious.

The second time John kisses Sherlock, they’re returning to the flat after dinner. It’s not after a case, and it’s not after a chase, and they haven’t rowed about anything in days (Sherlock has, in fact, been strangely solicitous, which weirds John out even though he knows why it’s being done.) (On the other hand, Sherlock knows precisely how John takes his tea, and the waiting, steaming cups on his bedside table in the morning, far enough away from his alarm as to be not in danger, have been quite nice).

Sherlock is behind John on the stairs, focused entirely on whatever text he’s just received (the frustrated way he’s breathing suggests it’s from Mycroft, and John wonders if he’s had to have another root canal--Mycroft has terribly soft teeth).

 _Now’s as good a time as any, right?_ John thinks. He stops and turns.

Sherlock halts, a step below him. The perfect height. He’s still distracted by his phone.

“John, what--”

Whatever Sherlock was about to ask dies on his lips when John lifts his chin with one finger and presses their foreheads together. For a brief moment, Sherlock’s eyes look like a million shards of glass again, and John wonders what it is about himself that frightens Sherlock so thoroughly.

That will have to wait for later, though. First--

“Hi,” John says softly, smiling.

Sherlock’s mouth drops open in shock.

John takes the opportunity to take the phone out of Sherlock’s hand and tuck it into his own jacket pocket. He follows that action by gently pushing Sherlock’s jaw (mostly) shut and then slowly, glacially slow, running his fingertips up Sherlock’s arms to his throat. Sherlock’s breath goes ragged all at once and he sways where he’s standing.

John smiles and leans in close, until their lips are just touching. Sherlock’s eyes fall shut.

“No,” John says, smiling against Sherlock’s soft lips. “Open.”

His smile widens when Sherlock obeys.

John kisses him, still smiling. Kisses him until Sherlock is making tiny sounds of desire, low in his throat, seemingly unaware of them. Kisses him while Sherlock’s hands flutter over him, still unsure if he’s going to disappear, until John takes those hands and lays them against his own hips. John kisses him until his eyes shatter, though it’s for a different reason this time.


End file.
